Consumed
by sariagray
Summary: A night of drinking and solitude. Includes Jack/Ianto, Gwen/Rhys, hints at Owen/Tosh and Andy/Gwen  unrequited . Based around Charles Bukowski's 'Beer.' Warning: Angst, Alcohol, Language, Sexual Implications.


**Title:** Consumed**  
****Characters/Pairings: **Rhys, Gwen, Owen, Tosh, Andy, Jack, Ianto. Jack/Ianto, Gwen/Rhys, hints at Owen/Tosh and Andy/Gwen (unrequited) **  
Word Count: ~**1500  
**Rating: **R/M  
**Spoilers: **No specific spoilers, though brief mentions of _Cyberwoman _and _Countrycide_. Takes place some point in Season 2, prior to _Reset_.**  
Warning: **Lovelorn angst. Lots of alcohol. Language. Sexual implications. Also, unbeta'd and posted super-fast, so feel free to point out any mistakes, please and thank you!  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own Torchwood. I do not make money off of Torchwood. This is for entertainment purposes only.  
**Summary:** A night of drinking and solitude.

**Author's Note: **Another Bukowski-based fic, using his poem "Beer." Originally posted on my LiveJournal of the same name.

* * *

**Consumed**

**_I don't know how many bottles of beer_**_  
**I have consumed while waiting for things**  
**to get better**  
_

Rhys stares at the mobile in his hands with as much concentration as he can muster. Gwen hasn't yet responded to the text he had sent her hours ago. He flips the device open only to be greeted by his background image. The picture had been taken long before they had even _heard_ of Torchwood, the day they had moved in together. She is smiling into the camera so brightly, their hands and fingers entwined, and he is looking at her. They look young and exhausted. They look _happy_.

He shifts on the couch; they need a new one. They need a lot of new things.

The coffee table is cluttered with beer bottles, the caps gathered in a pile in the lower right corner. He can't remember if he's been watching _Wife Swap_ or the rugby, and even staring at the screen doesn't clue him in.

He's not sure when marriage became indistinguishable from competition, but there it is.

He flips his mobile open, closed, and open again. He sends another message – it's just garbled letters – and tries to assure himself that she will eventually come home, press her lips against his, and mutter, "Rhys Williams, I love you."

And he knows he'll forgive her, so long as she makes it through the door.

**_I don't know how much wine and whisky_**_  
**and beer**  
**mostly beer**  
**I have consumed after**  
**splits with women-**  
_

Owen takes a swig of whatever-the-fuck is in his glass (beer, he's pretty certain, but he's had so much of it that he isn't entirely sure) and scowls at it like it's done him some disservice.

It hasn't, of course. In fact, it's been there for him for most of his life.

The pub is dark and anonymous and for once he isn't looking around for someone to warm his bed. He's had both bed-warmers and heart-thawers; neither of them last and each leave him feeling empty when they leave.

He nods gratefully when the bartender slides him another whatever-the-fuck. The man's raised eyebrow reminds him of Ianto. Thinking of Ianto makes him think of everyone else in the secret underground base they call a workplace.

And God knows he would turn to _her_ if he knew she would stay, but he's more superstitious than he lets on. Keeping her at a distance means keeping her around, as experience has taught him.

He drinks this round much quicker than all of those that came before.

**_waiting for the phone to ring_**_  
**waiting for the sound of footsteps,**  
**and the phone to ring**  
**waiting for the sounds of footsteps,**  
**and the phone never rings**  
**until much later**  
_

Toshiko tucks her hair behind her ears and toes of her heels. Leaving them, forlorn and out-of-place on the living room floor, she pads to her refrigerator. It's nearly empty. She imagines there are at least four other refrigerators in Cardiff that look exactly the same.

_Two_, she amends to herself. Rhys probably keeps his refrigerator well-stocked, and Ianto makes certain that the one in the Hub is filled at all times, so that's Gwen and Jack taken care of.

She almost convinces herself that she isn't bitter, not in the slightest. And at least it's something that she and Owen have in common: empty refrigerators. It isn't much, but it's a start.

She finds a beer buried behind a greasy white carton of what might have once been lo mein but is now a solid, moldy blob. She throws out the carton and takes the beer. She pops the cap off of the bottle with ease and takes a swig. It's cold, which is refreshing, but it's not a flavor she particularly enjoys.

The flat is quiet except for the whir of electricity. It is her only companion and, while it pains her, she recognizes the simplistic beauty of it all. She sits down in front of her personal laptop and uses a remote access feature to get into Mainframe; there are programs that need monitoring.

Just her and her technology.

**_and the footsteps never arrive_**_  
**until much later**  
**when my stomach is coming up**  
**out of my mouth**  
**they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:**  
**"what the hell have you done to yourself?**  
**it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"**  
_

Ianto considers that he may have had too much to drink when his insides lurch as he tries to stand. He's left his flat dark, much as it has been for the past year, and he stubs his toe trying to get from couch to kitchen.

Not that he can particularly remember _why_ he needed to go to the kitchen, but he is unabashedly proud when he arrives. Since he's there, he grabs another beer. And he_does_ think to turn on the light, which is something.

Jack is gone. Not _gone_ gone, but off brooding on some high rooftop somewhere about something-or-other for which he incorrectly blames himself. Or else he's on the pull, which Ianto refuses to let bother him. He has no proof, of course, but he also has no delusions. He's sworn off of _those_ after he lost Lisa (the second time, he reminds himself).

He hears the soft click of a key turning in a lock. It echoes throughout his flat and in his head, and he freezes. A waft of air greets him; it smells of soil and grass and rain. And pheromones. _Ah_. He relaxes his tense muscles.

And suddenly Jack is in front of him, giving him _that_ look, the one that is a cross between disappointed parent and frustrated lover. Or maybe it's just a look of concern. He really can't tell the difference right now.

_Not gone on the pull, then_, he thinks and tries not to be quite so pleased at the realization.

**_the female is durable_**_  
**she lives seven and one half years longer**  
**than the male, and she drinks very little beer**  
**because she knows it's bad for the figure.**  
_

Gwen can't be bothered with finding a corkscrew and so forgoes the bottle of red that Ianto has, for some inexplicable reason, kept in the tiny kitchenette. There's Jack's good Scotch up in his office, but the stuff is too strong for her tastes. She opens the tiny refrigerator and pulls out a beer. It's Owen's, and he'll moan about it later but it's worth _that_ headache to dull this one.

She's alone in the Hub. Well, alone except for Janet and Myfanwy. _Us girls have to stick together_, she thinks as she uses the counter to remove the bottle cap. She gives a vague toast and considers inviting Tosh to make it an official Girl Power event.

Clearly, she has been staring at her damn charts for far too long.

She's only offered to stay the overnight shift to avoid Rhys and his questions about the wedding and the future possibility of children. Children. How the _fuck_ could she give birth to a child now that she knows just how easily it could be stolen by faeries or mauled by Weevils or possessed by sex-crazed aliens?

She takes a swig of her beer and glares at her beeping mobile. Rhys again, she assumes, and rubs a hand over her eyes. _Rhys__ Williams, I love you_, she thinks and grabs it. She'll send a response; she owes him that much.

In retrospect, 'Jack needs me' may not have been the best option.

**_while we are going mad_**_  
**they are out**  
**dancing and laughing**  
**with horney cowboys.**  
_

Rhys stares at his phone.

"'Jack needs me,' my arse," he curses aloud and throws it against the wall. It doesn't break, but it does leave a mark.

**_well, there's beer_**_  
**sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles**  
**and when you pick one up**  
**the bottle falls through the wet bottom**  
**of the paper sack**  
**rolling**  
**clanking**  
**spilling gray wet ash**  
**and stale beer,**  
**or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.**  
**in the morning**  
**making the only sound in your life.**  
_

Andy hasn't had a case like this in ages; it's gory and impossible and can't even be passed off to bloody Torchwood. He recalls when he was just a policeman on his beat with nothing to worry about except pub brawls. The department is short-staffed, though, and he's loyal to his work.

The beer in his hand hasn't quite gone warm yet, but it's far from cold. His mind is filled with details. A decade's worth of serial killers, blood-spatter patterns, ligature marks, and he has half a mind to call Gwen for advice but it just isn't worth the damn headache. Or the heartache.

He glances around his flat; he really needs to clean it. But he's been pulling long hours this past week and his evenings have been beer-pizza-mindless. It's both monotonous and stressful. He wonders when the bottom dropped out. He uses a piece of cream-and-gold cardstock as a coaster.

_You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of..._

He misses her smile almost as much as he misses her banter. His life is just far too quiet now.

**_beer_**_  
**rivers and seas of beer**  
**the radio singing love songs**  
**as the phone remains silent**  
**and the walls stand**  
**straight up and down**  
**and beer is all there is.**  
_

Jack sits on the edge of the bed and watches. Ianto looks so young, asleep like this with his mouth hanging open, which only happens when he's drunk. It'd be adorable if it wasn't a painful reminder of the other times he's seen Ianto drunk. Twice. After Lisa. After the Beacons.

It's hardly a wonder that he's worried and keeping silent vigil over Ianto's bedside.

He covers his face with his hands, his elbows resting on his knees and his shoulders slumped. Vigils over bedsides never imply good things. Then again, most of the deaths in his life (both his own and those of the people he's loved) rarely involve moments like _this_.

He'll watch them all die, someday. Violently. If he's lucky, he'll have the chance to whisper something to carry them into the darkness before they take their final breath.

Kicking off his boots, Jack stretches out next to Ianto's sleeping form. He presses a kiss to those open lips. _Whatever I've done, I'm sorry._

And he'll remember this night as long as he remembers Ianto: the stale taste of beer on Ianto's breath, the way he leaned against him for stability, and the song on the radio that made Jack rush to this flat for reasons that will remain unexamined for all eternity.

But he'd never admit to any of this out loud. Never.

**End.**


End file.
